


Breathe

by crimsonepitaph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Incest, M/M, Mild Language, Truth Spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:37:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3369797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonepitaph/pseuds/crimsonepitaph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have run into it enough to know that truth hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_WarriorZ_Haven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_WarriorZ_Haven/gifts).



> Author's note #1: Title from the Pink Floyd song, Breathe.
> 
> Author's note #2: Written for yunhominji94 - her prompt was truth spell. Took me a long time to write, even longer to post, and it's not even exactly what she asked for in the first place - but I can't thank her enough for the constant encouragement and kind words. 
> 
> Author's note #3: Okay, so. borgmama1of5 is amazing. But we already established that. Huge, huge thank you to her for a super-fast beta, for having all the patience in the world, and for helping me improve. And for the summary. I am really, really bad at them - but she saves me, every time.

  
  
Low strums of guitar – start of Metallica’s  _Battery –_ and the low rumble of the Impala. Home, if Sam can call anything that.  
  
Dean starts tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the drumbeat.  
  
Sam leafs through the police folder in his lap.  He looks over at Dean. “Dude. We’ve been missing the motive. The chick wasn’t the only – Dean!“  
  
Dean’s not listening. Dean is in fact, humming along. Sam, with practiced ease, elbows him in the ribs. Dean’s gaze snaps towards Sam. He looks pretty damn outraged at having been used as punching bag.  
  
“Ow. What the hell, Sam?” He takes in Sam’s quirked eyebrow. He rolls his eyes. “Fine. What? What’s got your panties in a twist this time?”  
  
Sam huffs out an exasperated breath. The fucking case, that’s what’s got Sam’s panties in a bunch, thank you very much. And Dean should really shut up, otherwise Sam will stop wearing panties for Dean at all.  
  
“No, you won’t. “ Dean’s smirk really invites a  _friendly pat._ “You’re too much of a cockslut for that.”  
  
And. Okay, Dean’s pretty attuned to Sam most of the time. He understands Sam and his impressive collection of bitchfaces, he reads his frown or smiles, and catches all his moans, the whimper that says _harder_ , the grunt that says  _don’t stop._ Dean reads Sam like an open fucking book ninety percent of the time, and the rest he just supplies with his own dirty thoughts.  
  
Sam tries to answer, but his ability to speak gets left behind along the shoulder of the road when Dean puts a hand on his knee – rough, heated imprint Sam feels through his jeans – and slides it upwards, slow, so fucking slow, and his thumb, his thumb is rubbing small circles along the inseam of Sam’s jeans. Because Dean’s smallest gesture has Sam already breathing hard, fingers shaking slightly where he’s crumpling the files in his hand.  
  
Dean’s staring straight ahead. Doesn’t take his eyes off the road once.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
Sam struggles to find his train of thought. Which promptly falls off a cliff and dies a fiery death when Dean presses the heel of his hand on Sam’s cock.  
  
If Sam was a little less used to impromptu hand jobs in the front seat of the Impala, he’d have jumped and hit his head – like he did that first time, and  _no, he didn’t dent the roof of the car with his hard head, thank you very much._ Now it’s mostly trying to stay still. Maybe if he moves, Dean will realize what he’s doing, and this time, his words won’t be  _Calm down, princess, and sit still so I don’t drive us off the road,_ they’ll be _God, you’re a sick fuck, Sam._  It’s still there – that small, tiny little part of him that says  _this isn’t right._  
  
It’s love. It’s raw, it’s damaged, flesh peeled one layer at a time when they fuck, because it’s just them, and they can’t hide – can’t pretend they’re okay, can’t pretend they haven’t given up. The world comes to a standstill, fades out, and all that’s left are the scars, the fire under their skin that ignites them, and the broken, splintered reflections clinging to what they are.  
  
Sam’s forgotten, doesn’t remember himself. Sam’s lost. Lost to a destiny carved by blood on his hands, lost to pieces that were never his, fragments implanted by others, leaving the shaky foundation of a crumbling man. Dean’s all he remembers. His hands. His touch. His voice over the smell of burning flesh. Silence under the stars. Dean’s all that makes sense.  
  
Dean’s the only thing etched too deep to carve out. Hell tried. Hell burnt him alive. Turned him into a shadow, tired, worn out, crippled by his own thoughts. The light fades, the shadow cracks, dissolves under touch – under a silence filled with words, empty, worthless struggle to stay alive.  
  
It’s as easy as it is hard. It’s easy in the face of Dean making a crack, it’s hard in Sam’s mind.  


 

~

  
  
Truth. That’s what this case is about.  
  
They should run. They should, because the truth is what breaks even the last hopeless pillars, scatters the last grains of sand. A fall, continuous, meaningless in the aftermath, time caged into an hourglass that shatters each time, with each choice, every shred of trust lost, crushed under the weight of love, helpless decline into what they are.  
  
And Sam doesn’t know. Which truth is he afraid of?  
  
There’s so much he thought they couldn’t survive. Not when Sam kissed a broken, bruised, battered Dean after a hunt – because Dean was there, Dean was alive, and Sam didn’t care about anything but that.  
  
Sam thought he’d get a punch. Sam thought he’d get a look he imagined so many times. Shame, disgust.  
  
But Dean kissed back.  
  
And Sam should be happy. He is, for a few minutes at a time. The rest – well, the rest, he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop.  
  
For it to splinter, for them to break a final time.  
  
But it’s truth they can’t escape, no matter how much they want. Patented Winchester brand of self-sacrifice – they stay. To fix the mess. They stay, because a teenager cast a spell. A teenager who wanted to be liked, who wanted to be told she’s loved – wanted truth from her crush’s mouth. Innocent, in a way few things were in their life.  
  
But the guy, her friend, her crush – he didn’t love her.  Because there’s this, hardwiring, inherent choice nobody thinks about. She asks, and he tells her. The guy, oblivious and innocent, tells her his truth.  She cries. Sam heard once,  _if they don’t love you like you want them to, it doesn’t mean they don’t love you at all._  
  
Or something like that. Too many things he shaped to fit desperately into his life. But it doesn’t matter. They’re just empty words that can’t get past the walls in his mind.  Or hers, apparently. The girl jumps in front of a bus the next day.  
  
Her life is over. Just like that. She’s gone. But the truth she uncovered is not. The truth looms in the shadows, melting them away. She had no idea what she did. Only a few symbols that sealed a fate worse than death.  
  
Dean fucks him with slow, deep thrusts that night after they’ve figured out the trap. Fists a hand into his hair, brings Sam close, and usually, it would be to kiss him, rough, hard – but it’s not – Dean’s hand stays fisted in Sam’s hair, his body almost still, pressed,  _fused_ to Sam’s, only movement a shaky rock forward, Dean’s breath ghosting over Sam’s cheek.  
  
Sam doesn’t understand.  


 

~

  
  
“Morning, Sa –Jesus Christ. Did you stick your hand in the toaster last night?”  
  
Sam rubs the sleep from his eyes. Promptly flips Dean the bird when he has enough coordination for that. Runs a hand through his hair – tames it a bit, but not enough to disentangle all the twists Dean had left behind with his hands.  
  
“Fuck off, Dean.”  
  
Because, really. That’s all he’s capable of formulating right now. It’s morning. Coherency is decidedly a unicorn with pink stripes.  
  
“Cheery, aren’t ya?”  
  
Dean shoves something that passes for food in his mouth, smiles too wide. Normal. It’s nice to pretend they aren’t afraid.  


 

~

  
  
“So. The way she cast the spell…that means everyone she talked to – they had to tell the truth, right?”  
  
Dean nods, clicks away on his laptop. Sam wonders if it’s research or porn. It’s always a fifty-fifty chance. Sam continues.  
  
“But the spell didn’t kill her.”  
  
Dean shakes his head. They’re really good at this non-verbal thing. Sam hurls a fry at him. Dean’s head snaps up, and Sam smiles innocently, dimples carved out in his cheeks. Dean’s expression slides from mild irritation to a soft look that he’d never admit to if anyone pointed it out.  
  
“You listening to me?”  
  
“Yeah, Sammy. Just thinking.”  
  
“I’d say a penny for your thoughts, but you know – money being tight and all that. “  
  
Dean scoffs. “Smartass.” He closes his laptop, looks straight at Sam. All signs for  _serious_ in Dean’s book. “It’s just – you’re right. The spell didn’t kill her, right? The spell doesn’t kill anyone. Yeah, it spreads like a nasty virus, and some people might hear something they don’t like, but it doesn’t actually hurt anyone.”  
  
Sam gets it, even in the roundabout way Dean’s going at it. “You want to let it run its course?”  
  
“Well, right now, the only thing that we know actually stops it is if people say their shit out loud when someone asks.”  
  
Sam nods. “The guy could lie after he told his wife about the affair.”  
  
“Right. So. I’m saying. Where’s the harm in that?”  
  
Sam laughs hollowly. “ _Where’s the harm in that?_ Dean –“  
  
“Sam-“  
  
“No.” Sam might as well be honest. It seems to be the ongoing theme. “There are things that shouldn’t be said.”  
  
Dean grins, but it’s fake, ugly. “Figures. You never liked the truth, did ya, Sam?”  
  
Sam decides he doesn’t want to give Dean the satisfaction of how deep that cuts. He gets up, picks up his jacket from the back of the chair, and makes a move to leave.  
  
Dean’s voice stops him. “Sam –“  
  
Sam turns around. “Yeah?”  
  
“Bring beer when you get back.”  


 

~

  
  
Sam doesn’t let himself think about it. Doesn’t want to know if this is the one thing they won’t come back from.  _This._ Fear that shapes itself seamlessly, again, and again – in all Sam isn’t, in all the things he smothers and tries to forget exist in him.  
  
Fear that one day Dean will see. Will peel back one too many layers. Will understand too much. And Dean will leave.  
  
It’s easy. Somewhere along the line, he lost the part of him that questioned everything. The part that saw all facets of an issue. The pre-law student. The scholar. Somewhere after he started the Apocalypse, he decided it doesn’t matter. What he does, what he thinks, what he feels.  
  
More of the same. Just that. He’s tired. He’s wrong. He always has been. So why fight it? He gave in. He’s falling. He’s falling in line. He’s a good soldier.  
  
And he feels nothing at all.  


 

~

  
  
Sam passes the time talking to people around town. There’s no harm in it, he guesses. But he doesn’t find out much else. The spell propagates exponentially – each person already affected affects anyone he or she speaks with. It’s a nightmare of a spell, is what it is, Sam concludes after a few hours. The good thing is, there’s no speeches in the middle of the road, no confessions from the top of a diner table in the middle of a late lunch. There’s just truth. Reaction. People can’t lie when asked.  
  
It makes for interesting conversation.  


 

~

  
  
Sam gets back to the motel room when the day melts into night, pie and beer in hand.  
  
Peace offering. A plea not to ask.  
  
But Dean isn’t there. Neither is a note to where he’s gone.  
  
Sam drops the bag on the table. He’s relieved. Then guilty for feeling that. Sometimes it’s easier when Dean’s not around. When Sam can let himself fall apart. When Sam can be, he can  _feel_ without putting the burden of his scars on Dean. And sometimes all he needs to do is surrender to the pain. Feel all that he is, that part of him that’s shredded, torn, shattered. Let Dean turn him inside out, bring all the wrong to the surface, and just be – because Dean sees. Dean doesn’t care. Dean’s just as broken.  


 

~

  
  
Sam takes a shower, pulls on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, and more or less falls down on the bed.  Waits. Nights like this, sleep doesn’t come.  
  
The door opens with a soft click a little after midnight. Dean smells of smoke, and alcohol. He isn’t drunk, though. Sam knows that. Dean’s rarely drunk anymore. Just – worn out. Done with the world. He goes through the motions. And sitting in a bar, flirting, making the cute bartender blush – it’s part of that. Dean’s better at pretending he wants to live than Sam will ever be.  
  
What surprises Sam, though, is Dean’s silhouette in the dim light, immovable, still, at the end of Sam’s bed. Dean’s unsure. He doesn’t know what to do. Isn’t that a bitch. Dean always knows. Dean always fixes everything.  
  
 _You could never be fixed, Sam. You were broken from the start,_ a voice sing-songs in Sam’s mind. Sam wishes it would be Lucifer’s. He would be tangible. As it is, it’s just his doubts and his failures that haunt his mind.  
  
Sam doesn’t move. He wants to. He wants to feel Dean’s warmth, his hands – everything. But he can’t. Not now. He’s forgotten how to offer absolution. Never learned to for himself.  
  
Dean gets it, somehow. Seconds later, the figure disappears. Dean lies down in his own bed. A shuffle. His gun under the pillow. Dean still has his clothes on.  
  
It’ll make his morning escape easier. Because they both know – Sam isn’t asleep.  


 

~

  
  
“I figured out a way we can stop this,” is what greets Sam in the morning.  
  
Dean’s leaning on the headboard, laptop in his lap, half-empty bottle of beer and a sandwich too slimy to be healthy on the nightstand near him. Sam narrows his eyes.  
  
“Isn’t it too early for alcohol?”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes, and after a few seconds of silence, he says, “Figured I’ll need it.” He shrugs. “Good day to drink yourself stupid when you can’t lie.”  
  
Dean brings up a good point. Sam doubts he’s sober enough for any conversation to follow. He isn’t stupid – talking to so many people, and a spell cast so loose – lady luck wouldn’t be giving them a pass. Hell, she’d be offering invitation to whatever show was set in motion. Because Sam has no doubt – whichever way they go, truth or not speaking, it’s going to be quite spectacular. He scrubs a hand over his face, reaches for a can of beer in the cooler that Dean so helpfully propped near the bed.  
  
Sam steels himself. He talks. He asks. “Tell me.”  


 

~

  
  
“So, basically, we need to find a person with no secrets.”  
  
Dean snorts. “Yep. A lot of those around, I bet.”  
  
Sam leans against the wall, taps rhythmically with his fingers against the top of the empty can he holds in his hand. “Kids?”  
  
Dean ponders that for a second, but ultimately shakes his head. “Don’t think so. Remember us as kids?”  
  
“But we were different.”  
  
Sam’s said that a lot of times; he still doesn’t know if it’s good or bad. Dean watches him carefully. Sam doesn’t blame him. Dean never knows if words coming out of Sam’s mouth are convictions or acquittals.  
  
“Anyway. There’s one other option.”  
  
Sam has a feeling he won’t like it.  
  
“You won’t like it.” Dean pauses, watching Sam, but he just makes a motion with his hand to continue. Anything has to be better than this. Awkward, strained, sidestepping landmines in conversation. “The spell can be reversed. Sort of. A person can take it on willingly. But the catch is, it’s more or less permanent. Can’t be undone after. No spilling your secrets, then you’re off the hook. It’s for life, man.”  
  
Sam closes his eyes, winces. “And two?”  
  
“Two what?”  
  
“Two people. What happens if two people are willing to take it on?”  
  
Sam opens his eyes to Dean’s surprised face – just for a second, the proof of Sam’s failure as a brother, again and again – before Dean schools it back into a pensive expression.  
  
A few minutes pass, and the only sound in the room is the rhythmic tap of Dean’s calloused fingers on the keyboard. Sam can see the moment he finds what he’s looking for – his lips curve into the slightest smile, the insignificant self-satisfaction of having done a good job, remnants of a megawatt smile when Dad would put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, would look down with pride in his eyes, and he’d praise Dean on his researching skills. Dean was always good at it. He just liked to pretend the opposite, like he’d let Sam win a sparring match when Sam was upset.  
  
Dean’s deep voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “ It’s actually kind of poetic. The witch who wrote the spell is one crafty bitch. A larger number of people tempers the effect.”  
  
Sam considers that. “As in you don’t have to tell the truth all the time kind?”  
  
Dean nods. “You can’t outright lie, either – but you can –“  
  
“Disarm the ticking bombs.”  
  
Dean raises his head, faintest hint of a grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah.” He looks back to the monitor. “The original spell was to abolish corruption. Or something like that. It’s pretty old. Bottom line, left on its own, it creates chaos. People aren’t used to the truth, not all the time. But you can’t completely destroy it – you have to give something of yourself in return. The witch figured it’d bring people closer together – that the spell would have just the right amount of power if a large number of people would take it back. Just enough truth.”  
  
Dean whistles, impressed, and takes another swig of his beer.  
  
All Sam can come up with is, “Huh.”  
  
Huh. There’s another way the universe – fate, destiny, whoever the fuck – can screw them up. He’d honestly thought they’d exhausted all the options.  
  
Sam doesn’t give in to the urge to laugh hysterically until he cries. He states the obvious instead. “But there’s only two of us.”  
  
At that, Dean’s gaze meets his, studying Sam for a moment. Sam has no idea what he’s looking for – he has long forgotten what he could find in his own eyes.  
  
“It’ll have to do,” is all Dean says.  
  
And that’s that. Sam chalks another one up to the patented method of Winchester self-destruction.  


 

~

  
  
There’s herbs, an awful smell, and Latin.  
  
Dean blows out a puff, and the smoke – of course there’s smoke, because the Winchester Life-changing, Earth-shattering, Mind-blowingly stupid idea, number fifty-six and counting, needs some added dramatics – clears a bit. He looks up at Sam. “You feel any different?”  
  
“No.” There’s a twinge of pain, a niggling, indistinctive voice at the back of his mind. “Yes.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know. You?”  
  
Dean shakes his head. Then nods. Then catches himself mid-shrug. Right. Same.  
  
“Well, I suppose it’s as good a time as any to test the theory,” Sam says, not entirely convinced. He’s kind of really fucking terrified of this. His only salvation over the last years had been the lies of omission when wounds cut too deep, the guilt hidden behind indifference, the self-hatred beyond a curtain of hope and broken dreams.  
  
Dean seems to agree, but the steps he takes towards the bed are the slightest bit too slow – like he’s steadying himself, delaying the moment as much as possible. Sam doesn’t feel as vindicated as he should be. Dean takes a seat on the edge of the bed, mattress squeaking softly under his weight. Sam mirrors his action, sits at the table overlooking the beds.  
  
“You wanna start or-“  
  
“I mean, look, if you want to-“  
  
Silence, then two voices. “We could wait-“ “Maybe later-“ Same thought. But they’re back to a standoff.  
  
An uncomfortable silence follows. Minutes tick by, and they can’t seem to find words. Any words. They’re too afraid of them. Of what they’ll turn into. Of monsters they can’t fight.  
  
After what seems like twenty years in hell, but is, in fact, about a quarter of an hour, Sam figures there’s nowhere to go but down on this. He thinks back. There are so many things he wants to ask. There are so many answers he can’t hear right now.  
  
He bites the bullet, and speaks.  
  
“Amy. Why did you kill her?”  
  
It’s strange that that’s the first thing that comes to his mind. Or maybe not. It’s just a precursor, a placeholder for something much bigger. For an issue that’s reared its ugly head a lot of times. Trust.  
  
Dean looks unfazed, but increasingly more uncomfortable. “She was one of the bad guys.”  
  
Sam presses on. “You have another go. You’d do it the same?”  
  
Dean doesn’t respond immediately. He’s gripping the edges of the cover, hands balled into his fists, the only crack in otherwise composed façade. “I…yes.” It looks like it hurts, saying it. “Maybe I’d try to listen more to you. After Benny…the line isn’t where I thought it was. I’d give you the chance. I’d tell you. But Sam, any scenario – and put in front of her, I’d kill her.”  
  
“Because she’s a monster.”  
  
“Because she killed for her son. Because you do it once, you do it again. She’d have lied to herself for a while, that she’d never kill a human again, but when her boy needed it, she would have gone back to the old ways. No matter what.”  
  
Sam nods. It’s an expected answer. Maybe that’s why he picked the question. Easy. Only picking at an old scab. Not ripping it entirely. Dean’s truth, a reflection in the mirror. Because that’s what they’ve done, every time. There’s so many things they justified by love.  
  
“Your turn,” Sam says, leaning back against the back of the chair and crossing his arms.  
  
Dean holds Sam’s gaze. He’s silent for a while. He’s searching. There’s a beginning.   
  
“Jessica. You blame me for her?”  
  
Sam shouldn’t be surprised. Dean carries it with him, always did, as long as Sam could remember. These are sidesteps to questions much bigger. Dean’s guilt, Dean’s self-loathing. Dean wants to believe he’s good enough.  
  
Sam wouldn’t have needed to lie. “No. I blamed myself for leaving, for not telling her, for getting involved. I blamed Dad for getting us into hunting. I blamed Yellow Eyes for killing them all.  I even blamed Mom, later, a little bit for stacking the cards against me in the first place. I blamed everybody at some point.” Sam pauses, chuckles darkly. “Pent-up anger, remember?” He looks Dean in the eye. “I never blamed  _you.”_  
  
Dean nods. The silence stretches again. Until Dean speaks, an attempt to alleviate the tension.  
  
“So. Guess it worked.”  
  
Sam raises an eyebrow.  
  
“Well, I know you were dying to spill your guts and re-enact the chick flick of your choosing, but we can all agree that I wouldn’t have said that with a gun to my head.”  
  
Sam purses his lips. “Right.” He goes to sit up. “We done?”  
  
Dean nods eagerly, tension leaving his body in a big rush. “God, I need a drink. Pronto.”  
  
Sam gives in to the tiny laugh he’s been holding in. He can appreciate the sentiment.  
  
Dean’s just about to open the door, when he stops suddenly and turns, a dazed expression in his eyes.  
  
Sam wonders if he wants to hear what Dean’s thinking right now. He doesn’t have a choice, though.  
  
“Dude.” Sam waits for Dean’s words to make a little more sense than that. “We could have - “  
  
“Asked other questions?”  
  
“Well, yeah-“  
  
“Like what’s my favorite color of panties?“  
  
Dean grins at that. “For one –“  
  
”You have an obsession.”  
  
Dean raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m not the one who brought it up.”  
  
 _This time,_ Sam completes in his mind, smiling inwardly. “Blue. The dark one.” Sam pauses, turns serious again. “You know we couldn’t have.”  
  
“We could have at least tried.“  
  
“Dean.”  
  
 Dean reacts at Sam’s inflection, just like he always does. He concedes defeat. “At least this whole torture wasn’t for nothing.”  
  
Sam grins. “Torture, huh?”  
  
Dean nods. “Going through a wood shedder level torture.”  
  
Dean’s out the door before Sam can ask what he would know about that. Or ask for pizza. It’s a tossup, really. If they really have to live with this, he figures he should scatter the heavy questions few and far between. Preferably at times when Dean doesn’t have access to guns, knives or machetes.  


 

~

  
  
Sam checks out the town for a while – their end of the deal, as much as Sam hates to think about it, works perfectly. Same seems to go for the waitress that pours Sam’s coffee at dinner. She lies to Sam about the black eye she’s sporting. Not smoothly – the  _walked into a door, I’m so clumsy routine_ is more or less the biggest neon sign that screams abuse in Sam’s mind. But nonetheless, she doesn’t feel compelled to tell the truth.  
  
Which is good. It should be. It is, Sam convinces himself.  
  
He gives a card with his FBI ID to the waitress, tells her to call if the door gets pissed again. She stares at him, dumbstruck. Sam gets up and leaves, takes his bag with the to-go order for Dean.  
  
Sam almost makes it to the hotel room before it hits him – he’d lied to the waitress. He’d introduced himself as FBI. He could. There wasn’t the pull, the ringing in his ears, the voice in the back of his mind that didn’t let him hide the truth. And it dawns on him – it’s limited to Dean.  
  
He’ll spend the rest of their lives – however short that may be, because, hello, they’re Winchesters, and they don’t have enough fingers to count all the times they’ve died – being honest with Dean. Telling him all the things Sam’d buried so deep, he’d fooled himself into thinking they disappeared.  
  
Sam decides that somewhere fate is rubbing her hands in glee at the sweet irony.  


 

~

  
  
Dean trails his hand across Sam’s back, feathery-light touch, calloused fingers mapping all the scars that Sam doesn’t want to think about. Dean gets like this, sometimes. He gets lost in all the could-have-beens. Never for long, but just enough that his beautiful features crumple, twist, expression muted, eyes dull.  Those times, Sam thinks Dean’s going to say something. Something big, something that unravels the chinks in Dean’s armor.  
  
He never does. Dean just rests his hand against Sam’s hip, the only point of contact – and lets Sam pull him back, whispered words drifting, dissolving into a harrowing silence that ends with them kissing slowly, unhurried.  
  
They’re both so good at losing themselves into a splintered dream.   


 

~

  
  
 It’s rough.  
  
It always is, after something like this. And Sam wonders why, this time, because nobody died, because as hunts go, this was one that was almost too easy. And then he remembers the price they’ve paid.  
  
Dean falls down next to him, panting, sweaty, boneless. It is rough – Dean’s back is covered in scratch marks and Sam’s necks is littered with little bruises – but it’s so fucking good, it’s something he’s gotten addicted to. Dean’s low moans when he comes, the scratchy whisper that follows, when Dean asks if he’s good (he always does.)  
  
Sam tries to catch his breath, hand still on his cock, fingers swirling through the mess he made. It hurts, he’s too raw, too sensitive. But he loves it. He’s wired, there’s a surge of adrenaline running through him – he feels like taking on the world. It’s usually like that – Sam, awake,  _alive,_ thrumming with energy, and Dean, sleepy, drowsy, mumbling a half-hearted protest that Sam isn’t wired right, that good sex is, by definition and law of the universe, something that should knock him right out.  
  
Which is why Sam’s a bit surprised when he hears Dean speak.  
  
“This ain’t gonna be easy, is it?”  
  
Sam stares at the ceiling. It’s not a question with an answer. Not a good one, at least.  
  
He’d been right.  
  
There’s going to be so much to hurt – there’s an entire arsenal, a laundry list of things that cut too deep – they’re broken pieces of who they should be, two kids, two brothers cut by centuries of hell between them, scars that are more mangled flesh than simple ridges.  
  
Sam thinks they need good. They need a win. The small victories that make them still believe.  
  
“Tell me five things you like about me.”  
  
Dean turns to look at him, hair ruffled, and Sam can’t help the small smile, the warmth that spreads through his chest unwittingly at the sight of green eyes meeting his.  
  
“You need to make an Oprah moment out of everything, Sam?”  
  
Sam wants to punch Dean, kiss him silly, and hold on to him for today, tomorrow, and eternity. In that order.  
  
“So, five things, huh? That’s reaching, Sammy, more like two -“  
  
Sam gets a head start, and punches him lightly in the arm.  
  
“One.”  
  
Dean seems confused. Sam repeats. “I’m good with one. Just –“ Of course he’s the one saying it. He needs it. And right now, it doesn’t really matter. Dean already sees through him. “One good thing to hold on to, you know?” He pauses, spreads his palm over Deans biceps, grips. It almost feels like pleading. “Please?”  
  
Dean looks at him, startled. There’s few moments like these. But Dean always knows what to do, instinctively.  
  
“Fine.” He huffs out an exasperated breath. “Jesus Christ, those puppy eyes could sell ice to Eskimos.”  
  
Sam smiles innocently. Dean rolls his eyes. It’s a few moments before he speaks again.  
  
“Ain’t so good with words, Sammy.” Dean breathes in, stares at the ceiling. It seems to be the only way he can do this. “But you have to know – you’re it. You’re what I’ll always come back to. Stone number one, me, whatever.”  
  
Sam pauses for a beat. “ _Whatever?”_  
  
Dean’s smirking when he looks at him. It’s amazing, how easy they can go back and forth to this. Sam pulls a face that only half hides the smile on his lips. He turns his back towards Dean, pretends to go to sleep.  
  
 “Sammy?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Your turn now.”  
  
Sam needs Dean. It’s a law of the universe, of his life, the center of everything that makes him. And he’s shocked, every time, without exception, to realize the same goes for Dean. It’s hard to believe he’s worth it.  
  
Sam doesn’t say anything. He turns back – and he isn’t surprised to find Dean watching him. They both knew, it wouldn’t end like this. They always wake up in the morning, tangled together, bodies closer than humanly possible.  
  
But it’s never a conscious decision. Until it is. Until Sam settles his head in the crook of Dean’s neck, throws a hand around his waist possessively.  
  
Dean’s still – but when Sam looks up, he’s smiling. Small, soft, happier than Sam’s seen in a long while.  
  
It won’t last, Sam thinks. But it’s alright. For now, they get to have this.


End file.
